


a man had a dream about a woman and then he met her

by acidpop25



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Coming Out, F/M, Forging (Inception), Gender Dysphoria, Self-Harm, Trans Character, Transitioning, Transphobia, mtf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:05:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acidpop25/pseuds/acidpop25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a lot no one knows about Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a man had a dream about a woman and then he met her

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the first round on the Inception Big Bang and focuses on a pre-op MTF trans character (Arthur). The fic may contain triggers related to gender dysphoria, transphobia, and self-harm. Many thanks to my betas, chibi_lurrel and tailoredshirt, who were invaluable in helping me research, write, and polish this fic.

"Much as it pains me," Arthur says to Eames, "I have to ask a favor." He is regarding the other man across a table in a crowded bar, arms crossed over his chest and glass of scotch half gone. Eames cocks his head, a smile tugging at his plush lips.

"A _personal_ favor?"

"Don't push your luck," Arthur answers, and unfolds his arms to pick up his glass again. "No, work-related."

"Where's the fun in that?" Eames grouses, but makes a 'go on' gesture. Arthur is quiet for a moment.

"I need to learn to forge," he finally says, and Eames raises an eyebrow.

"Not to sound immodest, but you've already got the best forger in the business, pet."

"When you're free, sure. But you aren't always free, Eames, and besides, I always feel better about having back-up options."

Eames regards Arthur for a long moment. The reasons are valid, and Arthur is conscientious to a fault– well, no, not a fault, because it keeps his teams safe and makes him the best point man in the business to work with. Which is why, all things considered, it's intriguing that he's asking this _now_ , when he's had ample opportunities in the past. It can't possibly be the first time he's thought of it. That, along with his reticence, leads Eames to the inevitable conclusion that there's something else at work here, something more interesting and more personal than mere professional excellence.

Arthur has always been an unsolvable puzzle, but Eames knows an opportunity to pick up another piece of it when he sees one. He gives Arthur his most beguiling smile.

"I don't work cheap."

"I'm aware. And you, Mr. Eames, are aware that I can afford you."

Eames chuckles. "All the same, I think for you I can drop my fee a little, darling. As a personal favor."

"Mm, and here was me prepared to pay you extra. As a personal favor."

"Well, in _that_ case," Eames says, and Arthur smirks at him over the rim of his glass as Eames tries to backpedal, "maybe we should settle at the usual price and have done with it."

"That's fair," Arthur agrees easily, and extends a hand for Eames to shake. Eames holds on just a little longer than he needs to, but not quite long enough to get Arthur to break his wrist. Eames can see him consider it, though, before he remembers that he needs Eames to not be angry with him and settles for a narrowing of dark eyes as Eames draws his hand back with a smile.

"So, how does Tuesday sound?"

* * *

"Forging isn't just about changing how you look, that's the thing most people don't realize," Eames is explaining, sitting slouched in his chair. "The focus to keep another appearance comes with practice, and you're so bloody single-minded that you shouldn't have too much trouble with that. But to be believable you have to know your subject inside and out. How they talk, how they walk, how they move, their little nervous ticks, how they think, what they feel, where they've come from, what they want."

"I know a good forgery is difficult," Arthur murmurs, though he doesn't look up from the notes he's scribbling down in his Moleskine. "I certainly appreciate the expertise required of you, Eames."

"Well, it'll be expertise required of _you_ if you're going to moonlight as a forger," Eames reminds him. "In the interest of time, I think we should start you on someone you know pretty well already. Think you're up to impersonating Cobb?"

"It's as good a place to begin as any," Arthur says with a shrug, sliding the lead of the PASIV into his arm. "I'll give us an hour to start with."

Arthur's practice dreamscape is nondescript, the usual sleek financial-district look he always defaults to when the architecture isn't important. Eames rolls his eyes– _no imagination_ – but doesn't bother to needle him about it today, just follows Arthur's lead into a high-rise hotel and down the hall to the bathroom. Eames leans against one of the sinks, watching as Arthur stares at himself in the mirror.

"So how do I actually do this?" Arthur asks. "I know how Cobb looks, do I just... imagine myself as him?"

"Not exactly. It's more... you have to _become_ him."

"God, why would I want to do that?" Arthur says without thinking about it, and Eames lets out a bark of laughter. Arthur's cheeks go a little pink, but he smiles sheepishly. "Um. Don't tell him I said that."

"Your secret's safe with me, Arthur. But go on, try it."

Arthur lets out a breath and shuts his eyes, and Eames watches his features flicker and shift as he struggles for Cobb's body, face rounding, hair lightening. To his credit, Arthur's posture changes, going solid and heavy and losing some of Arthur's own tension, replacing it with the weighted-down cast that Cobb's shoulders always seem to bear. When he opens his eyes, they have gone blue and narrow, but his build remains resolutely slender, his face stubbornly clean-shaven. Cobb's posture looks wrong on Arthur's skinny frame.

"You need some more bulk," Eames instructs him. "Cobb's stockier than you, so you have to fill out."

"I..." Arthur frowns again but with Cobb's squinting scowl. For a moment it looks like he might get it right, his shoulders starting to broaden, but then the illusion is abruptly gone. It's just Arthur, standing in front of the mirror looking frustrated. "I can't get the muscle on."

"Sure you can," Eames assures him, "you changed your face, you can change your body. And you had his stance and expressions, which is the hard part."

"Not when you've seen that posture for years on end."

Eames grins at him. "The importance of research, darling. We do have _some_ common ground."

Arthur rolls his eyes, then turns them blue.

By the time they wake, Arthur still hasn't managed to adopt Cobb's heavier build, and he opens his eyes with a look of frustration.

"You'll get it," Eames promises, sliding the IV from his wrist and getting to his feet. "I'll see you tomorrow, Arthur."

* * *

"Let's try something different this time," Eames suggests. "I'm getting sick of seeing Cobb's squint whenever you try to focus."

"I can't be held responsible for facial expressions that aren't even mine," Arthur mutters distractedly. He's experimenting with his hair in the mirror, and Eames watches it shading to a deep auburn and taking on a soft wave. The forgery holds when Arthur turns back to Eames– it's not a color that looks particularly good on him, but it's very well executed. "Who did you have in mind?"

"Try me," Eames suggests. Arthur arches a brow and falls into Eames' posture first, loosening his stance, adopting that swagger, and it looks strange on Arthur, who is built small and narrow and is always so deliberate, so poised in everything he does. The moment breaks when Arthur's body slowly starts to fill out, gradual but definite, not stuck in his own shape like he had been with Cobb. It's at the face that Arthur gets hung up, bone structure not going heavy enough and jaw remaining close-shaven, though Eames' eyes and lips seem to come to Arthur easily. Interesting.

It takes a solid half an hour for Arthur to settle completely into Eames' shape, and it's uncanny, looking at himself reflected in Arthur like this.

"What do you think, darling?" Arthur asks, the words coming out in Eames' own British drawl, caressing the syllables when he speaks. The words sound like a silky come-on instead of a professional question, and Eames spares a moment to wonder how much of that is really Eames and how much is just Arthur's perception. Eames grins at him, and then slips into Arthur's skin.

"It'll do," he says in Arthur's own dismissive tones, and Arthur throws Eames' gravelly chuckle back at him.

"Your condescension is, as always, much appreciated," Arthur parrots, teasing, and abruptly Eames wants, desperately, to see that wicked glint of amusement in Arthur's own eyes instead of borrowed ones. He is started by the sudden strength of it.

Arthur still can't hold his forgery very long, and soon he is back to his own body, back to his usual grave expression– but it's a start. They practice daily, until Arthur can slide into Eames' shape relatively quickly and hold on to it for more than fifteen minutes at a stretch before Eames suggests they try something different.

"Pick a woman, any woman," he says grandly, kicking back in his chair. He expects Arthur to have trouble with this, finding the proportions and weight and feel of the opposite sex. Eames had, at first.

Instead, Arthur's body changes in all the right ways, taking on lushly curving hips and perfect breasts, a trim waist and a slender neck. His hair lengthens, curls, and then Mal's face is looking at Eames, but Mal as she had been when he first met her, beautiful and young and kind. Mal with her liquid, haunting eyes, Mal with her soft smiles and sundresses, Mal the mother and the mentor and the friend. Mal who Arthur had, once upon a time, trusted with his life.

"Eames," Arthur says, jarring him from his thoughts. The voice is gentle and rich with her accent, and the memories of her Eames had let himself forget come back in a rush. Mal had trusted him when no one else had, but it has been so long since she was any more than a violent shade in the depths of Cobb's mind. He swallows, pushes back the sudden pang of loss the sight of her sends through him and focuses on Arthur, Arthur. She is Arthur.

"I see someone's in touch with their feminine side," Eames remarks, teasing as a distraction. Arthur doesn't react defensively, though, much to Eames' surprise– no denial, no shooting Eames in the head. Just a shrug of Mal's shoulders, and then a moment later it is Ariadne standing in front of him, her curious eyes and tiny frame and a bright scarf around her neck.

"What's your point?" Arthur asks. His voice– Ariadne's voice– is calm.

"No point. Just took me longer to be able to do that when I was starting out."

Ariadne's lips quirk into one of Arthur's restrained little smiles. "It's not that hard. Or maybe I'm just better at it than you were."

The kick comes before Eames can retort.

* * *

"Creating a new person is quite different from becoming someone who already exists," Eames explains. He and Arthur are sitting together at Arthur's desk, a blank sheet of paper and a box of colored pencils spread out in front of them. "You have to decide everything about them, every detail, every little tick that will make the forgery seem real. You have to have–" he grins– "imagination."

Eames picks up a pencil, twirling it between his fingers as he continues, "I usually start by sketching them out. Helps me pin down their features, get a feel for what I'll be doing in the dream. Let's say, for the hell of it, that I need a Japanese loli girl for a job." Eames starts sketching, quick lines forming the outline of a slender young woman, petite, with a demure stance. To that Eames begins adding the clothing: the dress is chocolate brown, long sleeves puffed at the shoulder and a full skirt edged in ruffles. The dress buttons up all the way up the throat, and after a moment's consideration Eames adds a bow at the neck, and then sketches in stockings and shoes. Arthur watches all this in interest– he remembers seeing clothes like this last time he was in Osaka– but it is when Eames begins drawing his forgery's face that Arthur's attention sharpens, and it is there that Eames lingers longest, perfecting the shape of her face, her almond eyes, her small mouth, her mass of curled black hair.

"The body is important," Eames murmurs, "but the face is crucial." He darkens, fractionally, the line of her lashes, then pauses. "I probably should have asked before we started this if you can draw."

"Well enough," Arthur answers, picking up his own pencil. "All right. Let's say I need a businesswoman."

She is practically jumping out of his pencil, Eames observes, watching Arthur's hand fly across the paper like this woman has been waiting, just _waiting_ to be realized. Decent height and trim as Arthur himself but with roundness to her hips and just enough of a chest to be womanly, not enough to be particularly distracting. Arthur, being Arthur, puts her in a suit– gray pencil skirt and jacket over a dark blouse. She looks, Eames thinks as he watches Arthur start on her face, a good deal like Arthur himself might if he were a woman. Her face is rounder, jaw a bit less sharp, but she has the same serious expression, the same fathomless dark eyes. Her hair falls in loose waves around her face, though, not slicked back like Arthur wears his, and Eames decides against making an issue of any similarities. A radical change isn't really the place to start, anyway.

"She'll work," he declares. "Focus on her while I set up the PASIV. Every last detail, everything about her, remember it."

Arthur nods like he's not really listening, and Eames sighs and goes to flip open the silver briefcase by the lawn chairs and set the timer. A minute later, Arthur comes over and settles in his usual spot, and Eames hands him a lead and takes one for himself.

"See you on the other side," Arthur says, and they go to sleep.

In the dream, in person, Arthur's new forgery is really fucking beautiful. It takes Eames a while to track her down– he finds her sitting on a park bench, watching ducks in a pond. She has good posture, but not so tense as Arthur always is, and in profile Eames becomes absurdly fixated for a brief flash of a moment on her adorable little nose.

"Well _I'd_ do business with you," Eames says, sitting down next to Arthur, who makes an amused little sound in the back of his throat.

"And where is your disguise, Mr. Eames?"

"I don't really need the practice," he says with a shrug, but turns into her anyway. Arthur's eyes still crinkle at the corners when he smiles.

"She's cute."

"I might use her again sometime," Eames muses, but in a soft, girly voice with a pronounced Japanese accent. "Do you think Saito-san would like me?"

Arthur snickers. "Saito would probably kill you."

"Only if he found out," Eames protests, but he's laughing– giggling, really, a bubbling feminine sound for this forgery.

They stay under for two hours of dreaming, and Arthur's new face doesn't so much as flicker once.

* * *

"I think you've got what you need from me. You know what you're doing now, and practice on your own will take care of the rest."

Arthur actually smiles, genuinely smiles at Eames, wide enough that his cheeks dimple. "Thanks for teaching me. I... well. I couldn't have done it without your help."

Eames makes a dismissive noise. "You could have. It just would have been much harder, taken much longer, and been much less fun."

"Mm," Arthur hums noncommittally. "I'll have your payment tomorrow, if you can swing by the warehouse to get it. Do you have anything else lined up?"

"Not at the moment," Eames answers with a shrug, "but I've got plenty to live off of for a while, even with the amount I burn though." He grins, self-deprecating, and Arthur looks wry.

"If you're up for postponing your life of leisure a bit longer, I may have a job prospect," he says casually, "and I could do with someone to watch my back. Ariadne's designing the maze, but she's not going down there with me."

"Protecting her?"

Arthur shakes his head, lips twitching up at the corners. "She has exams."

"Better her than me," Eames says. "I could probably spare some time to help you out. Where will it be?"

"Brussels, it looks like."

Eames makes a face. "Brussels? _Really?_ I hope it pays well, Belgium is the most bloody boring country I've ever been to."

"It pays very well indeed. Besides, stealing secrets from diplomats sounds like your kind of job."

"You know me so well, darling. Sounds like fun."

"I'll get you the details with the pay for those lessons, then."

"Perfect. See you tomorrow."

* * *

Arthur is alone in the warehouse and hooked up to the PASIV when Eames lets himself in. He always looks peaceful in sleep, Eames muses, calm and at ease the way he never seems to be when awake. It's a good look for him; Arthur is usually much too tense.

He could give Arthur a kick to wake him, of course, or even just wait for the time to run out, but where's the fun in that? Instead, Eames settles down in the chair next to Arthur, pulls out a second lead, and sinks into sleep.

It's not a particularly exciting dream, but it's a pleasant one; Eames finds himself in the middle of a lush, green garden, the air a riot of sweet floral scents. It is warm, the sun bright in an impossibly blue sky, and Eames can hear birdsong.

In the center of it all is Arthur's female forgery, lying stretched out on the grass in a white cotton sundress and staring up at the sky. Arthur looks absolutely, perfectly at peace.

Arthur looks _beautiful_. It hits Eames like a kick, this goddess in the grass, and before he even thinks to remember that he shouldn't be here in Arthur's dream to begin with he is kneeling beside him, running his fingers through her hair.

"Eames," Arthur says on a startled breath, pushing up on his elbow, and Eames can only stare in naked, helpless want. He knows she’s still Arthur, still something different in reality, but he brushes the thought aside. He _wants_ her like this, desperately.

"Please, Arthur. It's only a dream."

Arthur watches him with those wide, dark eyes. "Call me Arlet, if I'm the woman of your dreams."

"Arlet," Eames murmurs, rolling the name around in his mouth, and Arlet lays a hand lightly over his in a silent acquiescence. It's all Eames needs to surge forward and kiss her, and Arlet arches up to him with a soft little noise in her throat that makes him dizzy with want. She is so soft and strong beneath him, and the smell of her skin is headier than the garden flowers.

Arlet slides him out of his shirt, and her small hands are all over him, mapping his skin and tracing his tattoos. She takes her time touching him; they are in no hurry, and she is nothing if not thorough, thorough and unexpectedly sweet. Eames rucks up the skirt of her dress, and Arlet obligingly sits up just enough to pull it off and cast it aside on the grass. Her pert little breasts are bare, and Eames palms both, learning their feel cupped in his hands, the way Arlet lets out a gasping sort of sigh and arches into his touch.

"You're so gorgeous," Eames breathes against her skin, and swirls his tongue around one rosy nipple, feeling it tighten. Arlet moans softly and works his belt and pants open, slides her hand into his boxers and wraps slender fingers around Eames' cock. Eames hisses in a breath, hips bucking into the touch, and Arlet smiles up at him with a faint gleam of mischief in her chocolate eyes.

Whatever plan that clever mind has brewing, though, is cut off by Eames tugging her underwear off and pushing her legs open, dipping his head to taste her. Arlet's whole body jerks in surprised pleasure, and then she lets her legs fall open wider, threads her fingers in Eames's hair.

" _Oh_ ," she says when Eames teases at her with the tip of his tongue, and her hips press for more friction. Her grins and pins her hips down before he gives her what she's aching for, licking and sucking at her clit until Arlet is a bundle of desperate nerves, writhing and moaning for _more, please, more_. She is wet and hot and slick with lust, and she finishes with his fingers buried inside her and his tongue relentless, still working her through her climax even as she arches and shakes and her grip on his hair goes painful. It takes her a long time to come down from the high again. She looks dazed.

"That... that was _amazing_."

Eames grins. "Rocked your world, have I, love? I'm only getting started."

"I don't even care how insufferable it's going to make you to admit this, because yes, you absolutely did." She tugs the rest of Eames' clothes off with quick, economical motions, her eyes turning hungry. "And if you're only getting started, by all means, _keep going_."

Eames is more than happy to oblige.

* * *

In reality, Arthur is still Arthur, and neither of them talks about it. Arthur has any number of excellent qualities– he is clever and collected and incredibly competent– but there’s a world of difference between flirting and acting that Eames isn’t ready to negotiate. In dreams, Arthur is Arlet, and– well, actually, they don't talk all that much there, either, but for completely different reasons. Arthur tells Ariadne that he's killing two birds with one stone, practicing forgery while he's on the training runs, and Ariadne shrugs and lets it slide because she trusts Arthur and is only there intermittently to teach them the mazes anyway.

"You should really learn to forge more than one shape," Eames remarks absently one day. "Not that I object to this one, mind, she's lovely. But you can't use her for everything."

Something goes shadowed and unhappy in Arlet's eyes. "Not she," she says quietly, and Eames' brow creases in confusion.

"Beg pardon, darling?"

"Not _she's_ lovely," Arlet clarifies, " _I_ am."

"You aren't getting a split personality on me now, are you, darling?"

Arlet lets out a bitter-sounding laugh. The click of her heels as she walks gets sharper.

"No. No, of course not. It's not like Arthur is some kind of freak or something." Her voice is hard and miserable, and Eames grabs her by the arms in genuine worry.

"Arthur–"

"Don't call me that!" She tries to twist away, but he holds fast– she can't pull loose or reach for her gun, so she settles for glaring. Her gaze is hot and angry and wrecked, and Eames spares the barest of moments to wonder how the hell he of all people never saw the raw, gnawing thing at Arthur's core.

"Arlet," he starts again, "please just tell me what's wrong."

She's scaring him, scaring him half to death, but at least the pieces finally make _sense_ when she admits, defeated and defiant, "I'm a woman."

Eames doesn't know what to say, doesn't know if there really is anything _to_ say in a situation like this, so he just pulls Arlet tight against his chest and folds his arms around her, breathing in the smell of her hair. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she relaxes against him, but her shoulders are shaking.

"Shh," Eames soothes, "shh, it's okay, pet."

"It's _not_ ," she says, voice choking up, but she is still that same steadfast person Eames knows when she looks up at him; no tears fall. "I've spent my life being _wrong_."

"You aren't wrong. Never that."

"My body is."

This Eames acknowledges with a nod, then leans down and kisses her gently. "Not here."

"Not here. Thank you for that."

"I wouldn't have put you through the hoops if I'd known."

Arlet manages a hint of a smile. "Well, it _is_ a useful skill. Wasn't the reason, but it's true."

"Explains why Cobb was so difficult for you." Eames is petting her soft hair, and Arlet lets herself lean into the touch. "Doesn't explain why I was easier."

Arlet actually blushes. "I, um. I had looked at you like I hadn't ever at Cobb. My guess is there's a difference between my seeing him as just a male shape, and you as a, ah. Object of desire. The first is kind of repulsive for me, the second obviously not."

Eames remembers how fast Arlet had filled in Eames' lips, his eyes. As if she had memorized them. The puzzle is falling into place.

He grins at her. "So you _did_ want me."

"You were the one who flirted with me, Mr. Eames," Arlet reminds him, nonplussed, and glances at her watch. "Time's going to be up in a minute."

"Yeah." He shrugs, thrusts his hands in his pockets. "We'll be back, though."

* * *

The next morning, Eames walks in still trying to reconcile the man he sees sitting at the desk with the woman he had in his arms in their dreams the day before. Dark eyes glance up, nervous, and Eames drops into the nearest chair.

"What should I call you when we're awake?" he asks in a murmur, and hands over a coffee.

"Arlet when we're alone," she says, and curls her hands around the cup. "I'm not out, obviously, but that doesn't–" she sighs. Frowns, tries again, "The me you see when we're asleep _is me_. And it's one thing to be called Arthur by people who don't know better, because I let them think that and that's my decision, but you do know better, so."

"So treat you as you are," Eames finishes for her, "got it."

She flashes him a grateful smile and takes a drink of her coffee– black, no sugar. "Thank you."

"For what, exactly?"

"For being so... so _reasonable_ about this. People can be terrible about what they don't understand, you know that as well as I do."

"I'm a forger, love," Eames reminds her, "it's my job to understand everyone."

Arlet looks at him for a long moment, the morning light through the window catching in her eyes. "I'm going to kiss you now," she says, and that's all the warning she gives before she leans in and presses her lips to Eames'. In reality, her lips are a little thinner, a little drier, but she kisses with the same single-minded intensity, giving it all her attention.

But when Eames wraps his arms around her, her shoulders are Arthur's, her chest a flat plane, and Eames breaks the kiss, his breath rough in his chest.

'Wait, wait," he says, "I can't– I mean. I like you a lot, Arlet, I do, but I– I'm not gay. Or at least I don’t think I am."

Arlet pulls back like she's been slapped. " _Neither am I_."

Eames exhales a frustrated breath and rakes a hand through his hair. "Right, no, I didn't mean it like that. It’s not about _you_. Look, Arlet, I get that you're a woman, right, you've made that clear. But here, like this, you... well you said it yourself, this body isn't that."

But she's already withdrawing, pulling back into herself, hiding in the crisp lines of Arthur's suits. "Right," she says flatly, "got it. If you'll excuse me, then, I have work to be doing."

"Darling–"

" _Work_ , Eames," she snaps and Eames has no choice but to move away and leave her to it.

The coffee on her desk sits untouched for the rest of the day.

* * *

It's not, Eames thinks as he frowns down at his drink, that he doesn't understand what Arlet has been saying to him. He does, he honestly _does_ , and he believes every word she's told him. Thinks of her, even, as "she," as Arlet, even when it's the Arlet in three-piece suits and crisp oxford shirt and ties. Eames still likes that Arlet, even with all the tense snappishness that the discord between self and body bring– she is still clever and competent and cool, and there is still that spark of pleasure when the façade cracks and she smiles, or laughs, or tells one of her dry little jokes. She is still the same impossible, infuriating, stunning, perfect woman whatever body she's wearing, and Eames _knows_ this.

He knows it all, and his head understands it. Eames is very, very good at understanding things, but that doesn't change the fact that in reality Arlet doesn't have those pretty curves. Physically she's very much male, an x and a y, and however much she hates it doesn't change the fact that outside of dreams Arlet has a dick and that Eames doesn't know how to deal with that. Flirting with Arthur to irritate him was one thing. Messing around with men in their dreams was one thing. This is something else, something he doesn’t know what to do with, this confused attraction to her.

Eames sighs and flops back on his sofa, flipping his cell phone open and closed with one hand. He can't call Arlet, not yet. Almost without his permission, Eames' fingers are dialing the only other number he has to call. He almost hangs up after the first ring, but his sister picks up before he has a chance to make up his mind.

"Jack, hey."

"Theresa, kitten, how are you?"

"I'm doing good." He can hear the smile in her voice, and instantly regrets not calling her more often. She's only a year younger than him; they had been so close growing up, but his line of work makes closeness so hard to keep.

"Glad to hear it. Sorry I haven't been in touch."

"You better be, loser."

Eames grins in spite of herself. "I'm suitably chastened."

Theresa makes a dismissive, disbelieving noise. "Nothing can chasten you."

"Guilty as charged. Mostly. Actually, that's sort of–" he breaks off. "Listen, T, you got some time on your hands?"

"Always got time for you, big brother. Hang on a sec, I'm gonna go upstairs first." There is a pause, and the background noises of television and voices fade into silence. "Okay," she says, "now shoot. It sounds like something's eating at you."

"Yeah." Eames huffs out a wry laugh. "Yeah. Girl trouble, I guess you'd say."

"Since when do _you_ have girl trouble?" she accuses genially. "You were always the ladykiller."

"The lady isn't... completely a lady, technically, I guess you could say."

"Okay, wow, way to be vague. Can you try for a little less cryptic?"

Eames sighs. "Right. So there's this... this guy I work with."

"The dream stuff?"

"Yeah. Anyway, long story short: it turns out, not a guy at all. She's trans. She's a woman in the shared dreams, but reality– well. Still a woman obviously, but physically not, and I–"

"–you're having a sexual crisis about it," Theresa finishes for him. Eames closes his eyes.

"Yes."

"Okay. Have you shagged her yet?"

"Theresa!"

"Well, have you?"

"Just in the dreams."

"What about awake?"

"She kissed me once."

"Uh huh." He can practically hear the look Theresa is giving him. "You freaked out, didn't you?"

"I... "freaked out" makes it sound so–"

"Yeah, yeah, got it. Look, Jack, cut the bullshit if you want my advice."

He sighs, defeated. "I freaked out. I'm straight, T. Or maybe bi-curious, if you count pretending to be a woman in dreams to distract people."

"All right, first of all? That doesn't sound very straight to me. Second, do you even know if she _wants_ to have sex with you when she's in a guy's body? Because to me that sounds like it'd be completely horrible for her– I mean, if you were trans, would you really want to get into the most obvious reminder of them all that your body isn't what it should be?"

"Well, when you put it like that."

"You suck at this communication thing," Theresa informs him flatly. "It's a good thing you read people well, otherwise everyone would hate you. Just _talk_ to her, Jack, and try not to say anything wildly insensitive."

"Right. Except I'm pretty sure I already did that."

"Then apologize for being an idiot. And get over yourself and make out with her, for God's sake, let her know she's wanted. Trans women are still _women_ , you shouldn't need me to tell you all this."

"Maybe I just needed to hear it from someone else. It sounds so good in your "Jack is a moron" voice, pet."

Theresa snorts out a laugh. "Okay. Well, I hope I helped. Is she cute?"

Eames grins. "She's bloody beautiful, actually. Pretty little brunette with big brown eyes and an amazing arse."

"Which version?"

"Well, both, actually."

Theresa laughs. "Nice. Do I get to meet her?"

"If it works out," he hedges. "Not sure you'd get along, though. She and I sure as hell didn't at first. Kind of has a stick up her arse."

"Can't be all bad if you like her so much," Theresa says. "Promise me you'll bring her 'round when you get the chance, all right?"

"Promise." Eames lets out a breath and sits up. "So, enough about me. What have you been up to?"

* * *

The job in Brussels goes off smoothly, and has the added perk of getting their names off a few wanted lists that have been interfering with other business. Eames may be a thief and a freelancer by nature, but even he has to acknowledge that international espionage jobs have their share of perks.

He'd be feeling a lot better about it, though, if Arlet weren't still giving him the cold shoulder.

"Arlet?" he finally says, because he can't take the entire train ride in stony silence. She doesn't look up.

"Hm?"

"I wanted to apologize."

Then, at least, Arlet finally turns her head, though her expression is unreadable. Eames swallows and barrels on, "I was an idiot, the other day, and I just... I panicked, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Arlet sighs, and for a long moment she doesn't answer, staring out the window over Eames' shoulder as the countryside rushes by. "I know you didn't," she finally answers, "but thank you for the apology." Her fingers are fidgeting restlessly on the arm of her chair, and Eames stills them by curling a hand around hers. Arlet's gaze drops to their hands, and after a moment she laces her fingers with his and leans to rest her head on Eames's shoulder.

"You did well today," she murmurs, closing her eyes.

Arlet dozes for most of the train ride to Paris, a warm weight at Eames' side. Her skin smells faintly of citrus, and Eames almost hates to shake her awake as the train pulls into Gare Nord.

"Do you want to come back to mine for a while?" Arlet asks him as they head for the metro, and Eames recognizes that it's her quiet way of saying he's forgiven.

"Sure." He doesn't let go of her hand during the ride, and Arlet offers him a hint of a smile and squeezes his hand before she finally lets go at her door to unlock it.

Her apartment is clean and inviting, suggesting an owner who's not home often enough to make a mess but settles in to be comfortable when she is. Arlet shucks her jacket and hangs it up on a hook in the entryway, gesturing for Eames' with one hand.

"You have a nice place," Eames remarks, and she smiles at him.

"Thank you. Make yourself at home. Would you like anything to drink?"

"I'm fine, thanks, darling." Eames settles on the couch and pats the space next to him. Arlet curls into it without hesitation, cuddling up to his side. She flicks the television on, and they sit like that, Arlet watching the news and translating bits of it for Eames while he runs his fingers through her hair until the gel is worked soft.

"Hey, darling?"

"Mm?" she hums, turning her head to look up at him, and Eames traces a finger over her lips.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he tells her, and feels Arlet smile against his mouth when he presses his lips to hers. She reaches a hand up and threads it in his hair, thumb stroking the nape of his neck.

They end up falling asleep in Arlet's bed at three in the morning, Eames stripped down to his boxers and Arlet in a set of pajamas that cover most of her body, the two of them kissing until slumber claims them with their lips still pressed together.

* * *

Eames wakes the next morning to an empty bed, but he can hear the quiet sounds of Arlet rustling around elsewhere in the apartment, so he doesn't let it worry him. It comes as no surprise that she is an early riser– as long as he's known her, she has been the first to start work and the last to leave it. Eames stretches lazily and rolls out of bed, padding to the bathroom before going to seek her out.

She's not hard to find, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and the morning paper. Eames kisses the top of her head, and she smiles and snakes an arm around his waist, pulling him into a brief hug without looking up from the article she's reading. "There's coffee if you like," she tells him, "but I'm pretty much out of breakfast food at the moment, I'm afraid."

"That's all right." He pours himself a cup of coffee and settles in next to her, foot stroking over her ankle. "Maybe we should go get you some actual food, then take some time to ourselves with the PASIV, hm? Unless you have other plans."

"Even if I did, I like that one."

They finish their coffee and dress– without a job to do, Arlet substitutes a pair of nice jeans for her usual slacks, though she keeps her crisp oxford shirt– and head to the nearest grocery store, bickering amiably over what to get. Eames is an impulse shopper, picking up whatever appeals at the moment; Arlet is the type to make a methodical shopping list from which she refuses to deviate.

"We don't need ice cream," Arlet grouses at him, handing the cashier money for the groceries.

"Sure we do," Eames says. "If it'll make you feel better about a frivolous purchase, you can eat it off of me later." And right there in the checkout line, Eames leans in and kisses Arlet, slipping a hand down to give her ass a teasing squeeze.

" _Pédés_ ," spits the man behind them, and Arlet jerks back, cheeks burning scarlet. Eames doesn't speak much French, but the tone and Arlet's reaction are enough and he turns, hands clenching to fist.

Arlet's hand closes on his wrist. "Don't," she says, and picks up the grocery bag and tugs Eames quickly out of the store.

"You shouldn't have stopped me."

"I don't– I can't–" Arlet tries, then deflates miserably. "Maybe not. But I did."

Eames takes the grocery bag from her and slides his other arm around her shoulders for the rest of the walk to the apartment. Arlet stays silent, stone-faced, and still doesn't speak when they're inside save to tell Eames where things go.

"How about that time in your dreams we talked about, darling?" Eames asks, and Arlet seems to perk up a little.

"Please."

The dreamscape is more or less the same as Arlet's real apartment, save that the floors are all carpeted instead of hardwood. Arlet is still sitting perched on the same kitchen chair, but she's wearing a sleek midnight blue dress and a pair of strappy, spike-heeled shoes, and her hair is held back in a perfect French braid.

Eames wolf-whistles at her, and Arlet rolls her eyes.

"What? You look good," Eames says, eying her up and down without even a pretense of subtlety.

"Just because I'm your girl doesn't mean you get to objectify me."

"Well, you can objectify _me_ all you like."

"I'm sure you'd enjoy that." Arlet uncrosses her legs and gets to her feet– standing in those heels, she's taller than Eames.

"I would. You've got legs for _days_ , Jesus."

She just smiles and walks to her bedroom, hips swaying enticingly.

Needless to say, Eames follows.

* * *

The doorbell rings, and Arlet panics. _What if it's Ariadne?_ Eames has been gone on business for two weeks– Yusuf needed a favor– and Ariadne is the only friendly associate in Paris who might know where this apartment is. But Arlet still doesn't know her all that well, and it would be one thing for Ariadne to come by and see Arthur-in-jeans, quite another for her to see Arlet, hanging around the house in the soft gray dress that she keeps hidden in her bottom dresser drawer.

Another ring, impatient, and Arlet peers through the peephole and lets out a sigh of relief. It's Eames, only Eames, and so she tugs the door open, her body obscured behind it while he walks in. To Eames' credit, there is only the briefest flicker of surprise in his gaze when he sees Arlet like this, in the right clothes but the wrong body, though she does what she can about the latter. Her legs and underarms are shaved bare, chin as smooth as ever, and her hair has been left to curl soft around her sharp face. It's not enough, not really, but it's better, enough better that there's a little less tension in her shoulders than usual.

"I had wondered," Eames remarks, pressing a kiss to her mouth. Arlet quirks a brow at him.

"You're back early. Wondered what?"

"I'm just that good, we got done faster than expected. Wondered if you ever– well, hm, I guess crossdress is the wrong word, isn't it, when it comes to you? The suits would be the crossdressing. I wondered if you ever _didn't_ crossdress, then."

Arlet smiles faintly, both amused and pleased that Eames had worked through the tangle of words without her help. "Sometimes," she answers, motioning him to follow as she drifts to the kitchen for drinks. "Only between jobs, of course. I have a few things I wear, when I have the luxury." She pops open a bottle of beer for Eames, and a cider for herself. "Though I like suits quite a lot, actually. Professional, classic. If I looked the way I ought to, I'd probably dress much the same when I'm on the job." She takes a drink of her cider, and Eames watches her lips around the bottle, the way the muscles of her throat work when she swallows.

"Sexy," Eames says, thinking of the dreams. Usually Arlet spends a lot of their shared dreaming time wearing nothing at all, and her clothes are usually dresses, tailored and elegant and easy to remove. But those suits.

Arlet smiles like she knows _exactly_ what he's thinking. "You could tell me how it looks in the dreams, one of these days," she offers casually, "since I can already tell that you're thinking about peeling me out of all those layers."

"You don't know that," Eames protests, and Arlet drops her gaze pointedly to his crotch. Eames glances down. "All right, maybe you do know that," he concedes, chuckling. It _is_ an enjoyable thought; he makes no apologies for that. Arlet looks more amused than anything else, and drops gracefully on to one of the kitchen chairs.

"Someone's got a suit kink," she accuses lightly. "Now sit in a chair like a civilized person, Eames, and don't even think of hopping up on the counter."

Really, Eames thinks, sometimes Arlet knows a little _too_ much.

"So," he says, "anything interesting happen while I was away? I know it's not likely, without me around, but you never know."

Arlet doesn't dignify the editorial comment with acknowledgment. "Actually, Cobb called."

"Isn't he retired now?"

"That's what I said," Arlet agrees, "but I can't say I'm surprised. Cobb's even more obsessive than I am, which, yes, I know, that's saying something."

Eames smiles. "So what's the job?"

"Bringing down a dirty district attorney."

"That sounds... surprisingly legitimate."

"He has the kids to think of, he wants to stay on the up. We'll need to be in L.A. on Thursday if we take it."

"Of course we're taking it. Right?"

Arlet smiles. "That's what I told him," she agrees, bringing her cider to her lips. Eames cocks his head.

"Does Cobb know?"

"Know...?"

"About you."

"Ah." A pause, another drink. "No. Well, probably not. If he does, it's not because I told him." She drums her fingers against the side of bottle for a moment. "Mal knew."

"Just her?"

Arlet nods. "I've known her longer than anyone, even Dom. She was... she was really good to me. I used to sit with her in her room, and she'd let me borrow a dress and do my makeup, and we would just talk. For hours, sometimes. She was like a sister to me, but without any of the fighting."

Eames watches her thoughtfully for a long moment. "Is there a reason you never had surgery? If you don't mind my asking."

"I couldn't when I was younger," Arlet says, "I was never out to my parents, and it's staying that way. Then there was West Point– bad idea, obviously– and then I was moving around all the time. Even if I could see a psychiatrist, which is unwise for someone who works in illegal extractions, I'd need to be able to stick with one of them in one place."

"So it's a logistical thing."

Arlet nods. "Believe me, I... if I thought it was at all feasible to do, I would. If I hadn't gone to West Point I'd have done it in college." She's quiet for a moment. "Does it bother you? That I still have a dick?"

"Oh, darling," Eames murmurs. "It's not what I usually go for, no, but I." He swallows. "I think I might be in love with you. And that's what's important."

Arlet's brown eyes go startled and wide, and then she pushes out of her chair and moves astride Eames' lap to kiss him, her hands cradling his face. Eames pulls her in close without any self-consciousness for his erection and forces down the twinge of discomfort he feels when Arlet's presses against him, even though she tries to hold her hips away as much as possible. It's not a turn-off, not like it should be, and it's that, more than anything, that makes Eames break for air, try to gather his thoughts and force them aside. She's Arlet, she's still _Arlet_ , he tells himself.

She's still Arlet, and she's looking at him with worry and fear in her expression when Eames opens his eyes. Arlet, who isn't afraid of anything, looks nervous, and she shouldn't have to be.

"It's okay," Eames mumbles against her mouth, and Arlet presses close to him with less hesitation this time and winds her hands in his hair. Her hardness isn't unpleasant, not really, and the friction when she shifts her weight makes Eames draw in a quiet gasp.

"Let me suck you," she says, pupils blown wide, "my mouth is still my mouth. I want to make you feel good while you're awake for once."

"You make me feel good more often than you think," he answers, "but you can do whatever you want to me."

Arlet smiles, a flush staining her cheeks, and slides down to the kitchen floor, pushing Eames' legs apart to kneel between them. She unzips Eames' jeans and tugs the fabric out of the way, Eames shifting his hips obligingly to make it easier. Then she's pulling his cock out, and they never touch each other like this– in reality it’s all endless kisses and bodies curled close, but nothing like sex. Not in reality. This is new and different and they're both in way too deep with each other, but Eames stops thinking about that at the first touch of Arlet's tongue to the head of his cock, flicking lightly at the slit and tasting the fluid there before swirling around the head.

A low groan escapes Eames when Arlet licks up the underside of his cock and then takes him in her mouth, sucking hot and wet. Eames tangles his hands in her hair, too considerate to tug and pull but unable to resist touching her _somehow_ while she slowly drives him out of his mind. His chest heaves with helpless want; even though she’s only done this to him in dreams, her mouth in this body still knows all the same tricks, all the ways to make him come apart, and soon Eames is moaning desperately. His hips don't have the leverage to thrust into her mouth or else he probably wouldn't be able to control himself. It feels so good, _she_ feels so good, and when he comes in her mouth Eames knows somewhere in the back of his mind that she is watching every second of it.

He’s boneless, spent, and when Eames opens his eyes she is still kneeling on the linoleum between his spread legs, and there is something wild and complicated and infinitely tender in his gaze when their eyes meet.

"Is there. Is there anything I can do for you, darling?"

Arlet smiles up at him, that same _look_ still haunting in her eyes even as they crinkle up at the corners. Arlet rises and pushes his legs back together so she can sit on his lap, smoothing her dress down.

"You've done more than you know," she murmurs cryptically. Her voice is wrecked and beautiful, and Eames pulls her in and kisses her deep, tasting himself on her clever tongue.

"Still," Eames murmurs, and Arlet nudges their noses together, a soft little nuzzle.

"No one else has been in love with me before," she whispers, "and that wasn't just timing or logistics or anything else. No one but you ever saw me like that."

"Their loss, my gain," Eames says, and hugs her close. Arlet closes her eyes and rests her head against his broad shoulder, smile still playing at her lips.

"I think I'm in love with you, too," she tells him, curling close. "Thank you."

* * *

Arlet's muscles are stiff and she is cranky by the time the plane lands in Los Angeles. If there's no Somnacin involved, she tends to sleep badly on planes, and her legs always end up uncomfortably cramped. Eames is wise enough to not talk to her much, leaving Arlet to simmer in her tension and irritation on the cab ride to Cobb's house. The pop music on the radio is mindless and repetitive, and Arlet stares out the window and watches the city go by. Eames has his own ideas about why she's in such a mood, but he keeps them to himself for the time being.

Cobb doesn't have the old heaviness when he opens the door for them– what he's been through isn't something you ever quite get over, but he looks happier now, more like the man they had known when they were younger and greener than like the man who had performed inception.

"Arthur," Cobb greets her, and Eames watches the tension in Arlet's shoulders wind tighter. The switch from being alone with Eames and being herself to once again having to be Arthur the point man, the point _man_ , is clearly not going to be an easy one. Eames had suspected as much.

"It's good to see you," Arlet says, smiling. Eames doubts that Cobb can see where it strains at the corners of her mouth, the telltale tension that comes with forcing the expression. Cobb has known her a long time, but he doesn't have a forger's eye.

"Arthur!" shrieks a high voice, and then Philippa is clambering into Arlet's arms. She picks her up and spins her around, and her smile warms into something more genuine.

"Philippa, precious," Arlet says, hugging her, "I missed you."

"Then you should visit more."

Arlet chuckles. "Probably. You've grown so much, look at you. You're getting so big." Arlet kisses Philippa's cheek, then sets her down. "I have to talk to your dad for a little while, honey, all right? But I'll come play with you later, I promise."

"Okay!" she chirps, and adds a passing, "Hi Mr. Eames," before she disappears, probably to her room.

"She likes me better," Arlet says slyly, and Eames rolls his eyes.

"That's because she _knows_ you better."

"Not the point."

"If you boys are finished," Cobb says wryly, "we have a job to discuss."

Eames and Arlet exchange glances and follow Cobb into the house and to the study.

"The D.A. has been taking bribes," Cobb explains once they're all sitting, "keeping key evidence out of court for the right price. Or so we think, but there's no proof. What we need to do is find a way to prove it." Cobb hands them both files, and Arlet flips hers open, scanning the page with quick eyes.

"Lancer must have done _something_ with the physical evidence he covered up," Arlet says, "so either we find out where it is, or we find a way to trace that bribe money. Either would be enough hard evidence to work from."

"The money will probably be easiest," Eames says thoughtfully. "Build a bank, and the numbers we need will fill in on their own. You'd enjoy a good bank heist, wouldn't you, darling?"

"It's a classic," Arlet replies, jotting a note on her file. "I think we should layer the dream and try to get at the evidence as well, but that will take more planning."

"How's this: you find me a few fairly recent cases that say "corruption" to you and get me the names. We find them, tail them, and you and I forge them on the second level. It'll suggest secrets to do with the cases to her subconscious, and she _should_ put where she hid her evidence somewhere for us to find."

Arlet presses her lips together for a moment. "You think I'm good enough to pull that off?"

"I trust you completely, darling. You can have first pick of the lot, choose which one you think will be easiest for you."

Cobb clears his throat, and Arlet looks over at him. "Eames taught me to forge," she says by way of explanation, and doesn't offer anything more. "How does that plan sound?"

"I think it can work. I'd like to see you forge before we get locked into this, though."

"Of course. If it can wait until I'm over the jetlag...?"

"Sure, right, sorry. You must both be tired. There's the guest room and the couch if you don't want to go find a hotel–"

"First, we'd only need one room," Eames says meaningfully, "and second, we already have a reservation. Thanks, though."

"You– oh." Cobb blinks at them. "I didn't know. Really?"

"I don't tell you everything about my personal life," Arlet say mildly, "but yes, really."

"Good for you, then." Cobb gets up, and they stand as well. "See you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Eames agrees.

* * *

Arlet emerges from the shower looking no more relaxed than she had when she entered it, all tension and fraying nerves and broken-glass eyes. She's wrapped in a forest green dress made of some soft-looking knitted fabric and her hair is damp and curling at her brow and she looks completely miserable.

"Would you fuck me?" Arlet asks, and Eames looks up at her with startled eyes.

"I– what? Pet..."

Arlet lets out a harsh, bitter sound that is much too unhappy to be called a laugh and throws herself down violently on the bed. "Of course you won't," she says, "I'm _Arthur_. I'm a point man and I wear suits and I have a _dick_."

"Arlet," Eames starts, alarmed, and gets to his feet to go to her. Arlet's fingernails are digging bleeding crescents into her palms, and she flips over with a full-body thrash and starts pounding her fists desperately, furiously, helplessly into the mattress with such force that Eames is afraid she's going to hurt herself. Unthinking, he climbs on top of her, his sudden weight and level head enough to overpower even Arlet, keep her restrained until she goes limp, face buried in the duvet. Her shoulders are quivering.

"Please talk to me," Eames says, and releases her, moving to kneel at her side. Arlet doesn't move.

"Arlet?"

She makes a strangled noise in her throat, almost like she's choking, and when Eames tries to gather her into his arms she twists away, face still resolutely hidden, and he gets it. Eames watches, powerless, and lays down beside her, presses close and drapes an arm over her waist. Holding her like this, he can feel the faint tremors, hear the soft noises of her muffled sobs against the bed, but he doesn't push to be allowed to see her cry. He isn't sure he could handle it; Eames has seen a lot of things, known a lot of people, but he thinks the sight of Arlet– strong, brave, resolute Arlet– in tears might break his heart.

It takes a long, long time for her to lift her head, and when she does her eyes are shiny and bloodshot.

"I've forgotten how to do this," she says dully. "Being alone with you that long... I got spoiled."

"Being able to be yourself isn't being _spoiled_ , darling."

"All well for you to say. You can be anyone."

"It's not about me."

"No. No, it's not." Arlet exhales a long breath and sits up. "I've done it before. I'll remember again." She flashes Eames a brief, strained smile meant to be reassuring. It isn't.

Eames lays a hand over hers. "You could just tell Cobb."

"I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because he... what if he..." Arlet can't finish the thought, but she doesn't need to. Eames' chest feels tight.

"Cobb trusts you more than anyone," he reminds her, "and you are more to him than a point man. He cares about you, Arlet, and this won't change that. He might not get it, but you know he'd try for you."

"He shouldn't have to. I'm supposed to make his life _easier_."

"Putting your safety on the line is nothing like having to hide who you _are_."

Arlet looks away.

"I'll think about it," she says, and nothing more.

* * *

The dreamscape is an expansive park in the bloom of spring, lush grass and blossoming trees and the sound of birdsong. It reminds Eames of the garden he had seen Arlet in, their first time together. Verdant green and warm, a sunny day. The kind of thing she dreams when she needs calm.

Cobb, used to her sleek cities of steel and concrete and glass, looks around in faint surprise. His gaze flits right over Arlet, who sits near them on a bench, the wind ruffling her hair. She is dressed, still, much as she does in reality– Eames recognizes the black pinstriped suit she wears, although it is tailored to her soft curves and she has left off the jacket. Her shirt, sleeves cuffed up to the elbows, is a pale pink.

"Where's Arthur?" Cobb asks, and she laughs.

"I told you she could do it," Eames says, amused. The look on Cobb's face is pretty priceless, and he doesn't even seem to register that Eames just called her "she." He shakes off the surprise after a moment and studies her, smiling just a little.

"She's very you, Arthur."

"You have no idea," Arlet replies, getting to her feet. Eames' eyes track the fluid movement of her hips as she steps toward them, and he forcibly reminds himself that this is business and he can't just jump her in front of Cobb no matter how good she looks.

"Show me something different, then."

Eames takes over the vacated bench and watches as Cobb puts Arlet through her paces, shifting between Ariadne, Eames, Cobb himself.

"You learned well," Cobb tells her, "but these are still all people you know, people you've spent a lot of time with."

Saito. Fischer. Yusuf. Eames' blonde girl. Arlet slides in and out of each, and Eames registers with a faint note of impressed irritation that his blonde looks even better on her– less plastic, more lushly sensual. He'll have to ask her how she does that. Eames wolf-whistles, and Arlet glances at him with the blonde's coy little promising half-smile.

"Satisfied yet?" she asks Cobb. Her voice is a cocky alto, the forgery now a young woman who looks to be no older than twenty, dressed in a torn black t-shirt, fishnets, a miniskirt, and chunky motorcycle boots. Her hair is bright purple and spiky, and there are marker scrawls up her arms. If this forgery was invented on the fly, Eames may have made himself obsolete when he taught her how to do this, but he doesn't think that's the case. Her swagger, her challenging bright eyes, the tilt of her head– they all seem too solid, too natural to be the creation of fantasy. Eames files the information away to ask about later, and watches in amusement as Cobb backs down.

"I had to make sure," he says, unapologetic but perhaps mildly conciliatory. Evidently it's enough to satisfy Arlet, who drops back into her own shape once more. If Cobb is curious about her choice to return to her female self instead of the Arthur he is used to, he doesn’t comment.

"You'd be a terrible excuse for a team leader if you didn't," she says, brushing it off, and Cobb nods slightly, acknowledging.

"Ariadne's flight gets in tomorrow," Cobb tells them, all business, "and she'll have the first draft of the maze in a week. I want you both ready to try first runs of your forgeries by the time we test the maze."

"Aye aye, captain," Eames answers lightly, complete with a mock salute.

Cobb resists what's doubtless a strong urge to roll his eyes and just shoots himself awake instead. He decides not to think about it too much when the other two don't choose to do likewise.

* * *

Surveillance is a necessary part of their jobs, both forging and point research. That doesn't, however, change the fact that it's boring as all hell most of the time.

"How can he possibly watch television for this long," Arlet grouses quietly to herself. Eames smiles in wry agreement and leans his seat back.

"The less than thrilling side of a life of crime," Eames agrees, stretching. "Mind if I ask you something?"

Arlet shrugs. "May as well. There's not a lot better to do."

"That forgery the other day, the one with the purple hair. Who is she?"

"How do you know she's not just made up?"

"Because, darling, while you do have more imagination than I originally credited you with, she _felt_ real."

Arlet smiles, then. "She is. Her name's Kate."

"Kate," Eames repeats, then asks, "who is she to you?"

"An old friend. I knew her in high school– that forgery was her when we were seniors. Eighteen."

"Huh." Eames smiles, ruffles Arlet's hair. "You don't strike me as someone who kept many good friends, even when you were younger."

"I didn't. But Kate and I were close." Her voice is a little wry and a little wistful. "Outcasts together, I guess."

"You, an outcast, love? I refuse to believe it."

"The preppy gay boy and the lesbian punk," Arlet says, "that's how everyone saw us in high school." She shrugs. "Kate was a cool girl, she kind of just... let my secrets be and talked if I wanted to talk. I haven't seen her in years, though. We lost touch when I went to college. Cobb didn't know that, though."

"She's cute. Not as cute as you, mind..."

"Flatterer."

Eames grins. "It gets me everywhere." He glances up at their mark, but no, the man is still watching some mindless sitcom, so he diverts the conversation, fractionally. "I have a younger sister."

"I know you do," Arlet says, and dimples prettily in the dark of the car. "Theresa Eames, a year younger than you. I'm a point, Eames, I do look into my teams."

"Of course you do."

"She looks like you," Arlet murmurs, smiling, "same eyes, same hair. Pretty mouth."

"My sister's a good-looking girl. So thanks," Eames says with a wink. "She's a writer. Or an artist. Or a musician. Depends when you ask her."

"Actor?" Arlet asks, brow quirking, and Eames shakes his head.

"That's just me. You should meet her sometime."

"Really?"

Eames shrugs, affecting nonchalance. "Sure, why not?"

"No reason why _not_ , it's just. Meeting the family."

"She doesn't bite," Eames replies, amused, "and she did say she'd like to meet you."

"Did she?"

Eames curls a hand around Arlet's. "I don't usually have anyone in my life worth telling my sister about in the first place."

Arlet chews on her lower lip for a moment, charmingly uncertain, then nods. "Okay. I can do that. After the job, maybe?"

"Well certainly not before." Eames leans over and kisses her cheek, and they fall back into companionable silence once more.

* * *

Their test run goes smoothly enough. Arlet still isn't quite comfortable with her forgery of Madison Keller, who had gotten off on manslaughter charges– it's close, but Arlet needs a little more time tailing her before she feels like it's all there, and Eames gently agrees. It's a good first draft, though, and Arlet knows she'll be able to hold on to it when the time comes.

Ariadne takes them all through her bank maze, shows them exactly how to get to the safety deposit boxes, and Cobb and Eames take turns cracking the combination with expert hands and sharp ears. The lock is of a simple, obsolete design– secure enough to lock, but nothing to make the extraction too difficult.

Cobb waits while Ariadne takes Arlet and Eames down to the level below, a re-creation of the mark's part of town. "Here you guys are kind of on your own," she explains as she walks them through the layout. "Cobb and I will be up above to keep an eye on things and give you your kicks. There's no safe on this level– basically, you guys just need to see if you can get anything out of the mark down here. If not, then not– we should already have the finances, so this is more like insurance than anything."

"I've run this kind of con before," Eames assures her, "I know what I'm doing."

Ariadne smiles. "Yeah, I know you do. Any questions about the layout?"

Arlet shakes her head. "It's straight from the map. Quite clear."

"Great." Ariadne perches on a porch railing, feet swinging. They have some time to kill on this level before Cobb kicks them back up. Eames leans against the rail next to her; Arlet stays standing, but her posture is relaxed, unworried. They're in Ariadne's subconscious for this level of the test run, and her mind is generally very well-behaved. The projections are few and scattered, and so far seem to be paying them absolutely no mind.

"Do you always wear that forgery now?" Ariadne asks, tilting her head curiously at Arlet. "I mean, she's nice, but you don't have to. No one questions your ability."

Arlet shakes her head and touches a self-conscious hand to her hair. "I know that. I... I like her."

"I can tell." Ariadne is quiet for a moment, watching Arlet with clear, slightly hesitant eyes, like she's on the verge of speaking but isn't sure she should. At last, she says, "You know... I know we aren't really close and haven't known each other very long. But if you wanted to talk or you had anything you needed to tell me, Arthur, I'd listen. People tell me I'm pretty good at it."

Eames could kiss her for that, her unassuming sensitivity and her quiet reassurance. She's guessed, spent more time under with Arlet than Cobb has, and the flicker of nerves in Arlet's expression is only that– a flicker.

"How long have you known?" she asks quietly, and Ariadne smiles gently and hops down from the railing.

"Kind of suspected it when you started showing up like this all the time in dreams. And, well, the projections don't gang up on her– on you like they do on Eames when he forges. It just seemed to make sense." She shrugs a little. "Sorry if I wasn't supposed to know."

"It... it wasn't that." Arlet flounders for a moment, lost, then steps forward and hugs Ariadne. "Thank you."

Ariadne smiles up at her. "What's your name, pretty lady?"

"Arlet," she tells her, and then comes the kick.

* * *

"Does Cobb know?"

Arlet sighs. Nosy, Ariadne has always been nosy, and now with Cobb's issues more or less under wraps of _course_ Arlet would be the next one on the team to catch her interest. _It's well-intentioned_ , Arlet reminds herself.

"No. Mal did, but."

"Really? Why haven't you told him?"

"He met me when I was military. I... I might tell him. I've been thinking about it." She sighs. "Eames thinks I should."

"It's good that you have him," Ariadne says, unexpectedly diverted, "you seem happier than you did when I met you."

"You met me working on a job that could have gotten us all killed," Arlet points out, "while there was a price on my head and my extractor was half crazy."

Ariadne's lips quirk. "Are you saying you were under a little stress?"

"Something like that," Arlet agrees, a touch of dark humor in her voice. Her eyes crinkle at the corners with amusement, and Ariadne still isn't used to seeing her seem at all at ease.

"Still. I think he's good for you."

"Someone's a romantic," Arlet says, but without any hint of mockery. Ariadne smiles and flops back on her hotel bed with a gentle bounce.

"I'm just happy for you, Arlet," she says, and something in Arlet goes all warm inside at hearing her chosen name spoken. It's not the same warmth as when Eames says it, _Arlet_ , breathless and longing; it's the warmth of finding herself with something she hasn't really had since Mal died– a friend.

* * *

The mark, John Lancer, is already asleep when the team gets there, and his assistant lets them in. This is the nice part of working on the right side of the law, Arlet supposes– no need to catch him outside or bribe anyone or sneak past security. Cobb sets the timer on the music while Arlet passes out the leads. She glances between them, then nods slightly and puts them all under.

Her high heels click on the polished floor as she walks into the bank. Cobb stands behind the bank counter; Ariadne and Eames sit unobtrusively in the waiting area as the mark approaches the front of his line.

"I need to put something in my safety deposit box."

"Of course, sir. Right this way."

Cobb leads Lancer off toward the back, and Arlet motions the other two to follow with her after a moment. By the time they're through, Lancer is slumped unconscious in a chair, an open bottle of water at his side.

"I'll crack it while you're under," Cobb says, "go. Good luck."

"You too," Arlet says, sliding her IV in, "see you after the kick."

"Goodnight," Ariadne says, and puts them under again.

Arlet doesn't like being Madison Keller, rough and unpolished and aggressive, with hollow cheeks and sharp, cruel eyes. Her gait is as much prowl as walk, like an alley cat. _Keep the image in mind_ , Eames had told her when she had used that description after a night of tailing the real Madison. Eames himself is broader and brawnier even than his own body, all rough muscle. The forge is of a murderer, and the man _looks_ it– Arlet has a hard time believing the jury didn't convict on appearance alone, even without crucial evidence. They exchange glances, nod, and split apart; Lancer can't see them together.

Arlet finds him first.

"Lancer," she says; her voice is that of a longtime smoker, harsh like it's been dragged over gravel, "you sure I'm off the hook?"

Lancer glances around, but there is no one listening. "Absolutely. Double jeopardy."

"Even if the evidence gets found?"

"It won't get found."

Lancer's glance flits in the direction of the retention pond; Arlet doesn't miss it.

"If you're sure." Arlet excuses herself to find somewhere to hide in the dream; she hears Eames' footsteps heading toward Lancer, but can't stay to eavesdrop. She ducks into a nearby shed and lets herself melt back into her own shape with a grateful sigh, then slips out to make her way to the pond. The water is glass-clear, not like water at all, and Arlet can see straight down to the box at the bottom.

Figures.

She slips quietly into the water, sucks in a breath, and dives. The box is _heavy_ , a struggle to drag back to the surface but simple enough to pry open, and Arlet commits the gun inside to memory just as the kick knocks her back to the bank, then up to the mark's bedroom, to reality.

Cobb shoots Arlet a questioning look as they quickly pack up the PASIV to slip away; she simply nods. "Got it," she tells him, "make the call."

* * *

"So I have a job offer in Seattle–"

"Can’t," Arlet interrupts, "I'm flying to London at the end of the week. It's not negotiable."

Cobb frowns at her. "It used to be you'd never turn down a job unless you thought it was too dangerous or impossible. This one's neither of those."

Arlet nods slightly in acknowledgment. "Things change. _You've_ changed. You don't need me the way you did before."

There's a moment of silence. "It was because of Mal?"

"Essentially. You had to have someone, then. I don't regret that decision for an instant, but you're so much better now. Not over her, of course– you probably never will be, not really. But you don't need me to hold you together, and I'm only human. I have things I need, too."

Cobb sighs and closes his eyes for a moment, scrubs a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, Arthur. I've been very selfish, haven't I?"

"I would never say that," Arlet says archly. "I would... strongly imply it, at most."

He chuckles. "London, huh."

"Eames wants me to meet his sister.

At that, Cobb's eyebrows climb his forehead. "Sounds serious."

"I guess it is, yeah," Arlet agrees. "He's pretty close with her. And I. Well." A slight shrug, slightly uneasy. "I'm serious about him."

"You know, I always felt like there was something between you two," Cobb remarks thoughtfully, "but you always seemed so determined not to let anything come of it. I kind of just figured you weren't gay."

Arlet bites her lip. "I'm not."

Cobb's brow crinkles with confusion. "You're going to need to be a little less cryptic."

Her lip is still caught between her teeth, worrying it white. The tension rolling off Arlet is almost a living, breathing thing in the air between them, a coiled snake she dares not disturb. The warning rattle on the edge of hearing, prepared to poison everything.

"I'm trans, Dom."

For long minutes all Arlet can hear is the heavy thud of her heartbeat, the rushing blood in her veins. Cobb's mouth works like he wants to speak, but it takes a long time for him to do so.

"You mean, like. Um. You used to be a girl?" he tries, face scrunched in confusion. Arlet shakes her head.

"No. I _am_ a woman, I just– my body isn’t."

"But you can’t be," Cobb protests, "I’ve known you for years. Arthur, did something happen in the dreams– maybe the forging, I don’t know, that–"

"No!" she snaps. "It’s _always_ been this way, I’m trying to tell you!"

"Just because you’re in a relationship with Eames, Arthur, it doesn’t mean you’re a woman. You don’t _act_ like one."

Arlet’s jaw tightens. "I'd better go," she says shortly, and flees before anything can get worse.

* * *

Arlet looks wrecked when she gets back to the hotel room, and Eames doesn't have to ask to know her talk with Cobb went badly. Pieces of Arlet's suit start hitting the floor the second the lock clicks shut; she strips down to bare skin with no regard or recognition of Eames and then locks herself in the bathroom. The sound of water running. Eames waits for over an hour, but she still doesn't emerge. Still the water running, the steady stream of the shower that has by now surely gone cold.

Eames tries the doorknob; locked. Unlocked, really– very few doors are locked as far as Eames is concerned, if he's interested enough. The one on their suite's bathroom is almost pathetically easy to click open– it's not designed for security, after all, and Eames has proper lock picks, though he could probably have done it with a couple paper clips. He pushes the door open and freezes on the threshold.

Arlet is sitting on the edge of the tub under the icy spray, wet hair sticking to her face. Her body is smooth, hairless, glistening with moisture, and she is staring down at her flaccid cock and turning the straight razor she shaves her face with over and over in her hand. Like she's thinking, like she's trying to make up her mind.

"Darling," Eames says, and Arlet startles like a frightened bird or a child caught misbehaving. She curses when the razor bites at her pale skin with the sudden jerk and sends a rivulet of blood welling from her hand and dripping down her thigh. She brings it to her mouth, sucking on the wound, and looks up at Eames with miserable, reproachful eyes.

Eames takes the straight razor away and she puts up no fight, just lets him pull it loose from nerveless, wrinkled fingers. Her skin is cold. Eames turns the water off, soaking his sleeve in the process, and wraps a towel around Arlet's narrow shoulders and gently rubs through the soft terrycloth.

"Sorry," Arlet murmurs, barely audible. Her voice is hoarse.

"Don't be," Eames tells her, "just do me a favour? If you want to cut it off, let a professional do it, all right? I know bleeding down there is the feminine thing to do, but not quite like that."

Arlet lets out a brief but genuine bark of laughter. "Gross, Eames."

"Says the one fantasising about slicing her dick off with a razor and no anesthesia."

Arlet looks down, frowns. "I can't have a professional do it."

"You can't _legally_ have a professional do it," Eames amends, because they are, after all, criminals. Arlet's mouth makes a rueful little moue.

"It’s not that simple, Eames. It’s not just a surgery, it’s– there’s psych evaluations, hormones, passing long-term, all these hoops to go through before you can even start thinking about seeing a surgeon."

Eames lets it drop. The room is quiet for long minutes save for the sound of Arlet's hair dripping.

"I take it things with Cobb didn't go very well."

"You could put it that way, yes."

Eames sighs. "I'm sorry."

She shrugs. "Not your fault."

"I'm sorry it happened. I know how important he is to you."

Arlet sighs and pulls the towel off her shoulders, starts drying her hair. "Thanks," she says, muffled by the fabric, then starts drying the rest of herself. "Would you bring me my dress?"

"Of course, love."

Eames digs the soft loose gray dress that Arlet likes to wear when she's comfortable and alone out of its hiding place at the bottom of her bag beside the green one. It's a sign of change, Eames knows, that she had even brought them with her in the first place. When he returns to the bathroom with it in his hands, Arlet is more or less dried off and permits Eames to slip it over her head. He nuzzles at the back of her neck; her hair is still damp, and her skin smells of soap.

"Come lie down with me," he coaxes, and Arlet acquiesces with a wordless nod, curling up under the blankets while Eames strips down to his boxers to join her. Neither sleeps for a very long time; they simply lie, silent, in the warmth of one another's arms.

* * *

"How is she?" Ariadne asks quietly. She's sitting across the aisle from Eames on a Paris-bound plane– Arlet had insisted on a stop and brief rest at her Paris apartment before going to London to meet Eames' sister– and watching them both. Arlet is asleep in the window seat, crisp oxford shirt rumpled and hair falling loose over her forehead. She looks relaxed in sleep, quiet and calm, her long eyelashes sweeping dark semicircles on her skin. Her head rests against the solid bulk of Eames' shoulder, and he can feel the warmth of her breaths.

"She's..." Eames trails off. "She'll be okay. Did Cobb say something?"

"He asked me if I knew," Ariadne agrees, "I told him yes, but for all he knew I didn't, in which case he would probably have been in serious shit for outing her like that."

"It's probably safe to say that he wasn't thinking very clearly."

Ariadne snorts. "Yeah. But I think he'll come around."

"I think so too. Hope so, definitely. You know how she is about Cobb."

Ariadne nods her agreement. "They love each other. But it is a pretty big bombshell, I mean, Cobb thought he knew her better than any of us, and he never figured it out. Even though I'd already guessed, and I'm not a forger, you know? It's not my job to learn people, I don't have to understand them any better than anyone else does."

"Yeah, but you're nosy."

Ariadne sticks out her tongue at him. "Still. Cobb's spent way more time in Arlet's head than I have."

"I'm pretty sure she'd have killed him if he ever tried to extract from her, though. I don't just mean her subconscious security, either."

"She's a private person." Ariadne is regarding Arlet thoughtfully, her expression sympathetic. "It all seems awfully unfair. You and I and most people match our bodies fine and we don't have to think about it, but she does. All the time. I don't know how she thinks about anything _else_."

Eames makes a thoughtful noise. His hand is resting on Arlet's lean thigh, warm under those sleek slacks. "She dissociates," he says at length, "she's always done that, shutting down on feelings that she doesn't want to deal with. Lots of people do, but she's better at it than anyone I ever met." Eames' fingers twitch, like he wants to pet her leg but is refraining. "She loved Mal, you know. Absolutely loved her. But I don't think she ever let herself grieve, she just– she was so busy being there for Cobb that she just shut it all down."

"That can't be healthy."

"Honey, people do a lot of things that aren't," Eames says with a certainty gleaned of long years as a forger and a con man. "You do, I do, she does... everyone you've ever met does something that's bad for them. At least she does it to keep herself sane."

Ariadne doesn't really have anything to say to that. "I'm going to get some sleep," she tells him, reclining her seat back and curling up into a tiny ball. "Wake me if we're gonna crash or something."

Eames grins. "Night, kitten," he tells her, and closes his own eyes as well.

* * *

"You're nervous," Eames says a little wonderingly as he watches Arlet fluttering around his London flat. She's _twitchy_ , almost, restless and anxious and not like herself. Arlet gives him a look that is half disparaging and half panic.

"Of course I'm nervous, I'm meeting your family."

"Just my sister. She doesn't bite, I promise."

She stares at him. "I don't know what to wear."

Eames manages not to snicker. "Is that what you're fretting about, love?"

"One thing among many."

"Well, let's start there, shall we?" he says, heading into the bedroom with her. He kneels by her bag and begins digging through the contents, and Arlet makes an irritated sound.

"You're making a mess of my things."

"I'll fix it later," he promises. She doesn't seem particularly mollified, but opts not to dig her heels in on the matter.

"So you _did_ pack jeans," Eames says, pulling a pair out.

"Not those," Arlet protests, "they make me look–"

"Sexy, I bet. Denim would do amazing things for your arse."

She flushes faintly. "But they make me look like a man in women's clothes."

"Which she knows isn't the case," Eames says. "Try them for me?"

Arlet sighs and relents, but locks herself in the bathroom to do it. Eames was right, the jeans _do_ make her ass look amazing, though he can't help but wonder how she has managed to tuck herself into them.

"Are you sure?" she asks doubtfully, and Eames runs a hand up her leg.

"I feel a little cheated that I haven't seen you in these in the dreams," Eames replies, and undoes the top button of Arlet's shirt. "You look good, darling. Relax."

There is a knock at the door, and Eames rushes to open it. Arlet follows at a more sedate pace to find Eames with his arms wrapped around his sister. She really does look uncannily like him, though her fashion sense seems to be mercifully free of paisley.

"–never in London anymore," she is saying as Arlet walks in, "and I know, I know, international man of criminal mystery and all that, but I missed you. Two years is ridiculous, Jack."

"I know." He kisses the top of her head and lets her go. "Theresa, this is Arlet. Love, this is my younger sister, Theresa."

"Pleased to meet you," Arlet says, extending a hand to shake.

"Oh, none of that," Theresa tells her, and hugs Arlet too. "You're my brother's girl, not a business associate. It's good to finally meet you."

Arlet tentatively returns the hug, a bit taken aback by the ease with which Theresa doles out physical contact but finding it hard to really mind. Maybe it's an Eames family thing, that comfortable physicality, but Arlet has never been one for casual touch. She's never been _warm_ that way.

"I'll make us some tea, darlings," Eames says, disappearing into the kitchen, and the two women sit down, Arlet on the couch and Theresa in the armchair.

"So," she says brightly, "how did you two meet?"

Arlet barks out a laugh. "I shot him."

Theresa looks caught between laughter and horror, uncertain how to take it, so Arlet elaborates, "Dream-sharing project in the military. That was years ago, though."

"I never could resist a good shot," Eames says as he walks back into the room, having set the kettle on to heat, "but we didn't properly meet until Arlet's partner at the time needed a forger. She spent the whole job giving me death glares."

"I don't like having my job disrupted," Arlet retorts, "you were a distraction."

Eames waggles his eyebrows at her. "If only you knew."

Arlet rolls her eyes, and Theresa smiles at them.

"You must have had quite a courtship," she says, "I see why you like her, Jack."

"Now if only I knew why I liked _him_ ," Arlet deadpans, and Theresa bursts into bubbling laughter, eyes bright and wickedly amused.

"Great," Eames says, "already ganging up on me."

"Girls will be girls," Theresa replies. She winks at Arlet, who smiles slightly, just enough that her cheeks dimple.

The kettle whistles in the kitchen, and Eames gets to his feet. "Arlet, love, would you be a dear and help me?"

"Sure." She follows Eames into the kitchen and watches him take the kettle off the heat and start making the tea.

"Your sister's nice."

"My sister is a terror," Eames corrects lightly, "but she likes you, that much is obvious. I told you it'd be fine."

"I've never been introduced to anyone's family before," Arlet reminds him, "especially as a girlfriend."

"Theresa's pretty openminded. Almost everyone she knows is some flavour of queer, as far as I can tell." Eames shrugs. "She runs with an unusual crowd."

"So do you," Arlet says, and Eames chuckles and hands her a mug of tea.

"Criminals generally are. Come on."

They return to the living room and Eames hands his sister her tea. Theresa is wearing a smile like she knows exactly what they'd been discussing in the kitchen, but she doesn't bring it up, just thanks Eames for her tea.

* * *

Arlet's apartment is peaceful. Eames is out "running errands," which could mean anything from actually running errands (they're low on bread) to selling international secrets. Arlet hadn't bothered to ask which– she knows he'll be back eventually, and if he's gone too long she also knows full well that she can find him again. She has turned her stereo on and curled up on the couch with a cup of steaming black coffee and the newspaper, a blanket thrown over her bare legs. Late morning light streams in through the windows, illuminating everything in the room in pale gold.

The calm is interrupted around the time Arlet is reading the business section by a knock at the door. With a sigh, she sets the paper aside and goes to the door, peering through the peephole. She expects Eames, maybe Ariadne. Not Cobb.

 _Shit_ , Arlet thinks, _I'm wearing a skirt_. She debates not answering, or at least running back to her bedroom to change first.

"I know you're there," Cobb calls, sounding exasperated, and so Arlet relents and pulls the door open, gesturing for him to come inside. His expression flickers, briefly, at the sight of her clothing, but the look is gone too quickly for Arlet to identify it.

"Arthur," he says, hesitant, "can we talk?"

"It's Arlet," she murmurs.

"Arlet," he repeats, trying the name out, testing it. "Arlet. It's nice."

"Thanks." She sits down and Cobb does likewise, a little uncomfortably.

"I came to apologize," he tells her, "I was an asshole when you told me, and I'm sorry. Look, you've always been there for me and you're the best point in the business, and that– whether you're a man or a woman or a woman with a man's body doesn't change either of those things. You've stuck with me through some terrible stuff, and you deserve the same from me."

She smiles faintly. "You flew all the way to Paris to tell me all that?"

"I did," Cobb agrees, "and I'm sorry I had to because I didn't get it right the first time. I was angry you hadn't thought you could tell me, but– but obviously you had reason to think that."

"Oh, Dom," Arlet says, because there's nothing else _to_ say, and she crosses to him and hugs him tightly, and he wraps his arms around her in turn. The last time he'd done that, his wife had just died.

"Are we okay?"

"We're okay," Arlet assures him, and Cobb gives her shoulders one last squeeze and then lets her go.

"If you're interested," he says carefully, "I happen to know that Saito is pretty good at making the world work however is convenient."

She blinks, eyes rounding. "You're not suggesting..."

Cobb smiles and gets to his feet. "Just something to think about," he answers, heading for the door, "tell Eames I said hello."

"Hey, Dom?"

He pauses, hand on the doorknob. "Yes?"

"Ariadne told you to come, didn't she?"

Cobb laughs. "I would have anyway. But yes, she did."

"Meddlesome," Arlet says, but fondly. "I'll see you on the next job."

"You certainly will," Cobb promises, and then he is gone.

Arlet picks up her phone off the table, scrolling through her contacts. S, Saito. The name stares up at her, waiting.

Arlet smiles.


End file.
